There was nothing particularly interesting about Georgia Lessie’s right shoulder, but Imogen couldn’t stop looking at it. The issue, Imogen knew, was in origin genetic mutability. Georgia’s right femur was two centimeters longer than her left: this shifted her pelvis, serpentine-slipped her spine, tipped her right shoulder so it sat higher than it should – right clavicle, a downward slope to her neck. Georgia’s right shoulder was an anomaly. Currently bare, because Georgia Lessie wore her navy-blue sleeveless leotard and leapt over classmates on the Jefferson auditorium stage. She was a tyrannical typhoon off the Eastern Seaboard. Today, she looked exceptionally spiteful.
The Theatrical Educational Society of the Jefferson Pre-Vocational Academy reenacted the inland flooding of Boston, Massachusetts, in 2059. It was part of their “Ages of Devastation Past” production, and had three acts: natural catastrophes, starvation, and the ethos of individualism. Imogen knew each act intimately. She had signed up for the role of Assistant Technical Director, even though none of her friends were involved, no university stream she was interested in cared about theatrical credits, and, frankly, drama was beneath her. She watched the whole thing twice a week. She took notes on the lighting cues, set changes, props, and wardrobe. She hadn’t learned much other than that Georgia’s right shoulder was its own shocking beauty. The way it moved was almost indecent, as Georgia danced, leapt, twisted and twirled.
Imogen spent most of Act One blushing – a flustered, frustrated blush. The lights are dark, she reminded herself. No one would guess, anyway. But it was the principle of the thing: It was wrong to pay so much attention to Georgia Lessie. She was just one person. The point was the collective effort: the whole; the unified all; the group, greater than the sum of its parts. Imogen was going to miss something important, looking at Georgia. Imogen was going to let them all down.
Now, Georgia grappled with an inland electrical tower: a rectangular box frame, two meters tall. Lights flashed, electricity snapped! on the audio track, as Georgia swung the frame, pummeled it, sidestepped its wavering momentum – then, crash! Down it came. Narrow-eyed vehemence, chest heaving, Georgia pushed through the tower, crushed it, unhooking each aluminum side as she thrashed, until the structure lay in pieces across the Boston cityscape beneath her. Rage, aggression, desperation, devastation: artistically performed. It was rare to see anyone angry in Endos.
Goosebumps fluttered up Imogen’s spine.
* * *
After rehearsal, Imogen took the 199 L Train up Sanchez Ave. She walked six blocks to the Los Rios B-918 Sable Flower state housing facility: her home, since she had graduated from the Hampton Collective Care facility at age twelve, and moved into Los Rios, to live alone. Her old care matrons checked in, from time to time, but these were social calls: Imogen’s activity was monitored, and, by general consensus on her assessment reports, Imogen did quite well on her own.
Her room, on the eleventh floor, was ten meters square. It smelled of lemon antibacterial scrub. It had beige walls – Imogen had never requested a colour – and everything, from her clothes, to her shoes, to her hair elastics, had a place.
Imogen walked to the control panel on the wall. She pressed her left temple to the receiving hub, and downloaded the visual data from the retinal camera in her left eye. Then, she waited the twenty seconds for review and analysis. The panel lit up, bright green – Imogen grinned. Eighty-six social integration points. Exceptional social integration. Well done, Imogen!
The data was logged to her record. Somewhere out there, the state knew Imogen had excelled today.
Self-satisfied and tired, she sank into her bed. The top half sat open, smooth and white above her head like the inside of an egg. She dropped her school bag into the drawer beneath, pulled off her clothes. She pressed a button and the bed’s ceiling closed. It clicked shut and the interior lights flickered on, pink against her pillow and bedspread, illuminating Imogen’s body in a warm glow. Imogen pulled her leisure slab from its pocket, and opened page seventy-six of her current book: Dietary Historia on Earth. This was not leisure reading. Standardized Aptitude Tests were two weeks away. Historical facts featured heavily.
“It is doubtful, given the torrent of bioengineering for nutritional productivity present in the Age of Starvation, that the last oatmeal on Earth tasted like oatmeal when it was eaten,” said the cool voice of the leisure slab. “But there is no doubt as to whether it was eaten. The last oatmeal on Earth was eaten in one of seventeen ways: raw; ground into powder; cooked in a broth…”
Imogen closed her eyes, memorizing.
* * *
Imogen dreamt she climbed to the top of the sky dome and claimed kingship over Endos, her homeland, the spinning rock within which the last dregs of humanity survived. She sat on a throne, in a bright red robe, and brandished a golden scepter. She decreed all citizens must bow to her, and leave offerings of food and knowledge at her feet.
The people of Endos jettisoned her through a tunnel. She shot into space, spinning head over feet.
There, she watched her homeland orbit old Earth, which was eighty times larger: a charred husk of a world. See what you’ve done to it, Imogen, Endos called. See what your individualism has caused. Now we’ll all burn up, too.
Imogen awoke, slick with sweat.
* * *
How strange would it have been to live on the upside of a spherical world? Wouldn’t a person feel frightfully exposed to the cosmos? Imogen felt she undoubtedly would. Imogen preferred to be enclosed.
Their home was not a planet: it was a terrarium. A massive rock – ‘moon’ the ancients had called it – hollowed-out in the middle to make a cylinder, spinning to simulate Earth-like gravity. It had two parts: The City and the Breadbasket. The City stretched over one-third of the terrarium: the complete urban landscape, housing thirty-seven unique but unified prefectures, over which the state had jurisdiction. (Imogen lived in ‘North America,’ which took up five percent). Over this, stretched a dome monitor, to simulate the sky. North America Prefecture was at the westernmost edge, and when Imogen walked to the edge, she could see where the sky dome met ground, behind a metal barricade.
Behind the sky dome was the Breadbasket: fields of agriculture, tilled by automatons. There were water reserves, and chemicals and nutrients, and technology that could manufacture almost anything from its most basic parts, given the correct ingredients.
Imogen once visited the Breadbasket, with her class. It was industrial, noisy, full of pipes and moving machinery. The fields of wheat, soy and barley weren’t beautiful: they were stacked, overlaid on each other, sequestered in massive transparent cages. Most of the systems were automated, but workers still ran the operations – agriculturalists, engineers, programmers, trades technicians. Imogen hoped she never had to work there.
The people of Endos had escaped Earth three generations ago, just before the world ended. They were never far away. As Imogen’s favorite poet, Talia Fen, once wrote: Endos circled their ancestor like a funeral procession, hungry carrion-eaters, a grieving child.
* * *
“Did you hear that Georgia Lessie is living with Charissa Mag?” Mackenzie’s high voice carried: it squeaked across the Jefferson cafeteria floor from where she, Tatenda, Siyu, Luisa, and Imogen were sitting. Their squat table was half-lunch spread, half-study desk. Imogen looked up from her math textbook, skin prickling.
“What, did her parents, like, die in some ritual sacrifice?” said Tatenda.
“No, dumbludd, they kicked her out.” Mackenzie dipped Tatenda’s bran muffin into her ketchup.
“Stalk off!”—Tatenda slapped Mackenzie’s hand, threw her muffin into the compost bin—"Are you serious?”
“Um, yeah. She messaged Charissa at, like, twenty-one-hundred hours, showed up that night with a backpack and a suitcase. Charissa said she didn’t even have a slab.”
Imogen’s heart raced. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and frowned at a quadrilateral relation.
“That’s screwed up, Mack,” said Siyu.
“Look, I’m just telling you what happened!”
“Shut up! Here she comes,” Luisa hissed.
Georgia walked up to their table, carrying a squashed plum in a compost sack.
Imogen and Georgia were in different streams: Georgia learned coding, systems maintenance and technical trades; Imogen – unable to decide – took all the academic courses: biology, chemistry, pure mathematics, physics, engineering, history, literature and rhetoric. Imogen was a child of the state, so she was predictable, dependable; Georgia’s family were Disciple Worshipers: devout to a neo-Christian sect that believed Jesus Christ’s acts of divinity were a direct result of the collectivism of his followers. Georgia received exemption notes for various classes, and took religious holidays. In the simulated spring of ninth grade, Georgia had claimed to be “close-minded,” with pride.
Georgia Lessie unnerved her peers.
“Hey! I need to talk to you,” said Georgia.
Thump, a shooting pain in her shin – Mackenzie had kicked Imogen under the table. “Me?” said Imogen.
“Yeah, you. In private.” Georgia fiddled with her compost sack, scowling. Luisa, Tatenda, Siyu and Mackenzie were all staring, now. “It’s about the drama production.”
“Okay.” Imogen rose. Luisa grabbed her hand. Tatenda looked nauseous. Mackenzie gave her a look as if to say: be careful. Mackenzie is a hot-headed alarmist, thought Imogen. But her stomach flipped as she followed Georgia across the room.
Georgia walked to a corner of the cafeteria, near a water fountain and a reprocessing bin. Her t-shirt had thin, wrinkled creases. She smelled like laundry detergent and industrial bergamot soap. She glanced around, then rounded on Imogen:
“I know you stare at me, all rehearsal. I just want you to know that I hate it.”
“I’m sorry.” Imogen felt heat rising up her neck. Her mouth went dry. She would have known how to respond to an accusation by Luisa, Tatenda, Siyu, or Mackenzie – lie, laugh it off, apologize, rib – but Georgia was chalk full of unknown variables. “I’m jealous. You’re such a good dancer.”
“You’re jealous of me? As if, Imogen: You’re state-raised, you’re on the honor track. I’ve been called dumbludd every second week at this school. Everyone loves to talk about me behind my back. You’re staring because you know my family’s weird. You think I’m some freakshow. You can’t stop looking.”
“No! Georgia, I don’t think that. You dance so well. I just like watching you. I know it’s weird…I’m sorry.”
Georgia looked away. She tucked her hair behind her ears, angrily, but maybe she was giving herself time to think. “Well just…just cut it out.”
“Okay. I’ll cut it out.” Imogen whispered the words, mortified. Georgia Lessie was an individualistic jerk, no better than the ancients – selfish, self-righteous, overly reactive – that’s what came from growing up in an unmonitored environment. What could Imogen expect?
She took a breath. She was lying to herself. She wanted Georgia Lessie to be nice to her with unmitigated urgency.
If I was like everyone else, this would be easier, she thought, miserably.
She sighed. This close, she could see red vessels speckling Georgia’s eyes. The skin beneath was dry and swollen. “I heard you were…I heard you aren’t living at home, anymore.”
“News travels fast in this luddhole.”
“If you want to talk about it, you could talk to me.” She was hesitant, beseeching. She kept her voice sweet. Please talk to me.
“Oh yeah? How many social integration points would you get for that conversation?”
“What? That’s not why I’m offering!”
“Whatever,” said Georgia. “I don’t need your pity. I’m doing fine.”
She wasn’t sure what Georgia was thinking as the girl stalked past her, shoving her beautiful shoulder into Imogen’s. But Imogen felt certain that Georgia Lessie was not doing fine.
* * *
In English class, Ms. Aasanaaq had set up mock Standardized Aptitude Tests. There was a test on every desk: a series of essay questions on the ancients’ North America. Imogen took her seat, fiddled with the electric pen, and stared at the backside of her school-issued slab.
The bell rang, and they recited the state benediction: “Stronger together. Weaker apart.”
Imogen mumbled, jittery with nerves.
Ms. Aasanaaq said: “Begin!”
Imogen flipped over the test slab. Do you think the ‘Wallstreet Bailout’ in America in 2008 CE contributed to the rise of populism in the following three decades, given the damaged public purse? That question was vague…there were many populist uprisings…She would need late-stage sociopolitical economic theory. She read the next one. Discuss the correlation and/or lack of correlation between the high interest rates on home mortgages in North America in the 1980’s CE and the Starbucks coffee chain’s rise in the market. Caffeinated productivity mania? A stretch. The test seemed biased. Explain, if you were a benevolent dictator in America in the 19th Century CE, what legal restrictions you would have placed upon Mary Mallon, given her lifelong asymptomatic typhoid status. Was she prepared to delineate the fundamental, conflicting, and nuanced dynamics between personal autonomy, collective safety, and the role of the state? Could she do it? In sixty-five minutes? She looked at the next question. Debate: The ‘Stanford Prison Experiment’ of 1971 CE proved more about the experiment’s individual participants’ relationship to power and privilege than it did about ‘fundamental human nature’. The need for specificity…the individualistic notion of ‘fundamental moral essence,’ propped up through biased data extrapolation…Maybe she could work with this. She looked at the clock. She had to choose now, she told herself. She couldn’t spend twenty-five minutes deliberating, like last time – what a disaster. She chewed on her lip and started to write.
* * *
Five hours later, Imogen was back in the wings of the auditorium, and Georgia Lessie was on the stage. Imogen kept her eyes on her notes. At the penultimate crescendo in Walter Hurst’s Symphony for a Dying World, Georgia Lessie fell.
Her body made a thud-smack on the floor of the stage. One of the Truden-Tamagashi buildings screamed.
Imogen looked up, startled. They made eye contact: Imogen, squashed between heavy curtains; Georgia, crouching over a slip of metal piping, where she had caught herself, landed on her knees. Georgia’s eyes had a quality to them Imogen didn’t recognize. Like she knew she was prey – knew her fate, endured it, because what choice did she have? – but felt dangerous things. If Imogen walked onto the stage, if she reached out her hand, would Georgia take it or shove it away? Given Georgia’s expression, Imogen almost believed anything was possible.
“I’m fine. I’m not hurt. I miscalculated.”
Georgia rose up, and the music began again.
* * *
There were times when Imogen believed the ancients were strange and repulsive creatures. Automatons living out their meaningless lives, without care, without gratitude, without forethought. They consumed with unabashed recklessness. They lived in their own filth. They built systems scaffolded by greed and unchecked individualistic power. How could anyone live that way?
But Georgia’s parents had ejected her, summarily, from their household. So, there were times when Imogen thought she understood. It was true: the people of Endos shared the same genes as the ancients. They were coded the same. Failure was possible.
It hung beneath Imogen like a cast net, toothed, wide-grinned, always waiting.
* * *
The night of the Jefferson Pre-Vocational Theatrical Production was set on an overcast Tuesday. Overcast sky was programmed to occur at a rate of 1 in 16, similar to an inland temperate climate, and was intended to encourage residents to stay indoors, to socialize, to work longer, to organize the home, to feel cozy. Gezelligheid weather, they called it.
Having known the forecast a year in advance, the production was scheduled for such a day.
Imogen sat at the front doors of the auditorium, trading tickets for credits in a clunky tally counter that squealed every time she needed change. She sold at least fifty – friends, and family of the students. She even sold a ticket to Suzannah De Luca, who was raised at Hampton with Imogen.
Suzannah was dressed in drab slacks and a blouse. She accepted the ticket with her usual vagueness, mumbled something about new experiences, and left without making eye contact with Imogen.
Imogen watched her go. She saw Georgia scowling from the stage door.
She ducked her head and started tallying the ticket sales.
* * *
Imogen watched the performance from the back of the auditorium. Buildings crumbled with notable devastation, the Famine Reaper didn’t miss his cue, and the ocean waves engulfed the coastal lowlands with a newfound graceful terror. It was their best performance yet. They received a standing ovation. Georgia’s performance won accolades from the Drama teacher, Mr. Ramirez, who had the final word at the microphone. (‘Stellar performance from the Egbert Typhoon!’)
Watching her classmates bow, Imogen felt larger than herself. This was her community: her generation. They could reenact the end of the world, learn from it, emerge unscathed. Endos was, after all, built with the hope that they could survive. Can we do it? Imogen wondered, then. Can we, one day, rebuild a better world?
The curtains fell and left her in the darkness.
* * *
“Great job in the show, tonight, Georgia. Everyone was enlivened. The collective was stronger than the sum of its parts.” Imogen kept her head down, focused on Georgia’s right arm. Stilted and formal seemed to Imogen like her safest bet, these days.
Georgia scowled, face flushed, shining with sweat from the heat of the performance lights. “I saw you talking with Suzannah De Luca.”
“Suzannah was two years ahead of me at the Hampton Care Collective. Do you know her?”
“She goes to my parents’ church.”
“Oh.” The clothes, Imogen realized. “That makes sense.” She leaned closer. It was shocking to speak poorly of another, but Imogen guessed – from Georgia’s deepening scowl – that Georgia wanted to hear it. She was ready to do the unthinkable. She lowered her voice. “Suzannah seems perpetually distracted.”
A sudden smile. The first Imogen had seen Georgia make, in months. “Yeah. She’s a weirdo. I guess it was just…unexpected, seeing her again. Do you want to get out of here?”
“Um…sure,” said Imogen, surprised. “Where would we go?”
“Anywhere. C’mon. I just need to walk.”
Georgia changed her mood without warning. It was spontaneous, unexpected…reckless, thought Imogen. She told herself to be careful. Nonetheless, something fluttered in her chest as she folded the collapsible table and gathered her things.
Georgia Lessie wants to walk with me! What a dream.
Georgia changed into her street clothes. Imogen packed up the tally counter and uploaded the credits to the Theatrical Education Society folder in the teachers’ lounge. They only made sixty credits, but the state funded every social educational enterprise, so the credits were just for the novelty, anyway. They stepped outside. They walked west. They followed the simulated sun, behind the clouds.
* * *
“Did your parents come, tonight?” said Imogen.
“Don’t you dare bring up my parents.”
“Right. Sorry.” Imogen crushed her cheek with her palm. “Their loss.” She thought she saw Georgia smile. No, she must have imagined it. They walked further, turning west at the intersections. They walked in silence. What was Georgia thinking? Imogen didn’t dare ask.
At last they came to the edge of the city, where the sky dome met the urban ground. It was twilight: a dusky purple horizon, glowing in the west. They stood at the rail before the three-meter tall metal barricade. If Imogen jumped the rail and scaled the barricade, she could reach out and touch the sky.
Imogen often thought about touching the sky. She imagined it would feel sticky, like oil, and reassuringly firm.
“What are you going to do for a career?” said Georgia, breaking the silence.
“I have no idea,” said Imogen. “Something important, for the collective. I want to be great. For everyone else.”
“That’s weird. What do you love?”
“What does it matter? I’m not some individualist. I’m not going to live my life self-absorbed, seeking out my own happiness at others’ expense.”
“Why would your happiness be at others’ expense?”
“That’s the way it ends up – that’s the logical endpoint, the natural conclusion.”
“I love to dance.” Georgia stared at the purple twilight. “In Discipleship, everyone says the same thing, eats the same food, dresses the same – everything is preordained. Nothing is unexpected. But when I’m on stage, no one can guess what I’m going to do next. Each beat-to-beat moment is creative, unpredictable, irreplaceable, and I get to choose where my fingers go, when to twist my neck, how far to incline my back. If I didn’t, you would never see it. And I know you like watching.”
Georgia glanced at Imogen, then looked away.
Imogen curled her hands over the metal railing, warm, moist with sweat, unable to deny it.
“Here. Take a look,” said Georgia, unhooking the necklace she wore. She lifted the emblem up. The necklace was made of small pieces of pressed glass, held together with soft, silver metal. The pieces were red, green, gold, bronze, ochre, pink, pale blue, navy, violet. Together, they formed a picture of bread, two fish side-by-side, on a grassy outcrop, beside an ocean, under a bright blue sky.
“It’s beautiful.” Imogen touched one of the golden glass pieces – a fin, of one fish. “Is it a religious symbol?”
“It references a Discipleship parable about collectivism. A miraculous act enabled by the collective: nourishing hungry people with bread and fish. Which is why I was allowed to keep it.” Georgia looked rueful. “That’s not what matters, about it. It’s a mosaic. See? Every piece is different, but together, they are cohesive. The picture wouldn’t work if every piece was the same. The point is they’re different, together.”
“It’s perfect.”
“So, what colour piece are you?”
“I…I guess I’m the colour most needed to complete the picture.”
“That’s not the way colours work, Imogen. You can’t change your nature, only what shape you put it in. Besides, if every colour said that, there would be no picture. Every piece would be painting themselves beige, trying to fit in.”
“Maybe I’m the metal that holds the glass together?”
Georgia laughed. “No, that’s the terrarium we live in, dumbludd. That’s the air recyclers and the food-manufacturers, the farms on the upside, beyond the sky dome. The reprocessors, the institutions, the state. My, you’re arrogant! I never knew.”
Imogen scowled.
Georgia laughed harder, buckling into the rail.
“Hey, I don’t want to go back to the Mags’. Can I come over to your place?”
“Sure.” She ducked her head, hiding her surprise.
They turned around, headed east. The sun dipped lower into the horizon: a million pixels of dimming, colored light.
* * *
Imogen realized how drab her room looked, with Georgia inside it. Her beige walls, for the first time, reminded her of the clothes worn by the neo-Christian devotees. She hoped Georgia wouldn’t think about it.
Georgia sat on Imogen’s bed. “I’ve wanted a bed like this, since I was eight years old. I saw it in the furniture catalogue. Mom said it was ‘too individualistic,’ and ‘not worth the price.’”
Imogen sat down beside Georgia. Their hips touched. “It’s a nice bed.”
“Do you ever wish you had parents?” Georgia seemed stiff. Imogen scooched a few inches away.
“When I need to talk to someone, or…make a decision,” she admitted. “But it seems unpredictable. I don’t like unpredictability.”
“I wish I was raised by the state,” said Georgia, wistfully. “I’ve been wishing that a lot, lately.”
“Why did your parents kick you out?”
Georgia touched Imogen’s bedspread, running her fingers over the fabric. “Imogen, I don’t think you’d look at me the same way if you knew the reason.”
Imogen swallowed a lump in her throat. How bad could it be? “You don’t have to tell me. You can take my bed, tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor. I don’t mind it.”
“There’s no need for that. We both fit.”
“I mean…it’ll be cozy.”
“Whatever,” said Georgia.
Imogen gave Georgia a pair of pajamas, let her use a spare toothbrush, and stored her schoolbag in the drawer beneath her bed. Then, they each took a side, and Imogen tried to swallow her nerves.
When the top began to close, Imogen pulled out her slab. She tapped, and a picture emerged. It was the live feed from the camera on the exterior of Endos. A round, blue-and-green Earth – the waxing gibbous, taking up half the sky. Thin glimmer of atmosphere around it. A background of perfect black, pinpricks of stars. She showed it to Georgia.
“Do you think we’ll ever go back to it?” said Georgia.
“I hope so. But I doubt it will be us who does. Carbon scrubbers, refuse reprocessors, nuclear containment: they can only do so much.” Imogen paused. “I…I hope whoever does return…”
“What?”
“Just…does a better job.”
“Yeah.” Georgia pulled the bedspread toward her. “Me too.”
They lay in the silence, dim light overhead.
“Sorry I called you arrogant,” said Georgia.
“I am arrogant. I think I can make a difference on Endos – isn’t that arrogance?”
“It’s not arrogance, Imogen. You’re just good at school.”
“It’s a defense mechanism. I can’t fail.”
“Well, I’ve failed.” Georgia’s voice was suddenly bitter. “It’s not so bad.”
“You didn’t.” Despite her lack of knowledge, she felt compelled to take a stance. “Your parents made a bad decision.”
Georgia didn’t say anything, but her breathing sped up. They lay in silence, again. Imogen could see Georgia’s outline, in the dark. The heat of her body. The whole bed smelled like bergamot now.
“If I tell you what happened, you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“Of course,” said Imogen. Unless someone is in danger, she thought wildly – then, Imogen would tell.
“I was dating Suzannah De Luca.”
“What? Suzannah? She’s like…wow, really?”
“She ended it.”
“Oh…” Imogen could hear her own heart pound, in the silence. Don’t say the wrong thing, don’t say the wrong thing, but she was going to, anyway – she just knew it.
“What were you going to say?” Georgia sounded nervous.
“I don’t know,” said Imogen.
“Yes you do.”
“She just seems…different than you.”
Georgia looked away. “She is. But I was head-over-heels. I loved everything about her.”
“Like what?” Imogen was grateful it was too dark to see detail – her face was burning up.
“I don’t know. The way she paused before speaking, then said the most unexpected things. She would stare at the horizon for minutes on end. We always snuck out of Discipleship, kissed in the vestry attic. Her hair smelled like salt from the shampoo she used. She was off in her own world, and I never felt like I was a part of it. But I wanted to be. I tried to be. It doesn’t matter, now.”
“That’s why your parents made you leave?”
Georgia groaned, rolled into the wall.
“They want everyone to be the same,” said Imogen, thinking about it. “Not different, together.”
“Yeah.” Georgia’s voice was hollow. She ended up on her back, staring at the bed’s ceiling.
The injustice rankled Imogen. I need to say something better. “You needed support most, but they took it away.” She felt a sudden pressure in her chest. “Your parents should be ashamed.”
“They had the power to.”
“Power doesn’t make it right.”
“I know.” Georgia’s voice broke. She pushed her hair off her forehead, angrily. “It’s just ironic. You care so much about fitting in, you’re not there for your own hurting daughter.” She glared at the ceiling. “I…I want to stop caring about…what they think of me. But…I can’t. I miss them. I do.”
“I’m sorry.” Imogen felt enraged. Impassioned, she sermonized: “You can’t just eject someone from a community when they make a decision you don’t like! Even if it was a bad decision.”
“You think it was a bad decision?”
“I don’t know, you got hurt. It’s not my place to decide.”
“I care what you think.”
Imogen’s heart skipped a beat. “Well, I think your parents are extremists.”
“They’re not extremists…they’re…closed-minded. In their world, difference means individualism. They have the right to believe whatever.”
Georgia loved her parents, Imogen realized. They had rejected her: still, she defended them. How is it possible to care about someone so much, even when it hurts you? Imogen leaned closer. She had the urge to wrap both arms around Georgia, to touch her cheek. What would she say? That things were going to be okay? How could Imogen know that?
“I want to live in a world where no one gets pushed out. Where everyone knows how bad they can impact people, and takes that responsibility to heart.”
“You don’t even know my parents.”
“So? What happens to one person impacts all of us. Why don’t people see that? The ancient didn’t make choices like it mattered – that’s how the world ended: plagues, famine, fragile systems built on short-term gain. Everyone is just trying to get ahead. I’m like them, Georgia. I want to get ahead. It’s why I’m afraid to choose anything.”
Georgia fell silent. They lay in the darkness, but Imogen felt exposed. It was an uncomfortable feeling. She regretted her decision: She shouldn’t have turned the conversation to herself – Georgia was the one who needed help. It was self-centered, she thought, miserably. Just like the ancients. Self-centered, indulgent, mindless.
“You can’t know the consequences of every decision you make,” Georgia said, at last. “You just…have to make decisions anyway. Things are unpredictable, sometimes.”
Imogen nodded. She took a breath. Georgia was so forgiving. Her shoulder was so close to her, now. The curve, where it met her collarbone, was silhouetted in the darkness. If she just reached out…
Maybe Georgia was right. Maybe she had to make decisions.
She lifted her hand. She touched Georgia’s shoulder.
“Imogen…” Georgia’s voice was a sudden warning, full of disappointment.
Imogen blanched. She took her hand away. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m…I’m not over Suzannah. I just lost my family – I’m not doing well. I need a friend, right now.”
“Yeah. Of course. I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not. Really.” Georgia said it softly.
Imogen wanted to tunnel into the bed and then disappear. But Georgia needed her. She would do the right thing, for Georgia. It was better to connect than to get what she wanted. “I can be your friend,” she said, quietly. “You’ve been through so much. I don’t want to let you down.”
Georgia reached out under the blankets, took Imogen’s hand, and squeezed.
* * *
They fell asleep facing each other, cocooned in Imogen’s bed. When the simulated sun rose, Georgia rose too, stretching her full body, lifting her arms up. Her fingers touched the ceiling. “I should go. I promised Charissa’s mother I would clean the house on Saturdays. Dumbludd payment for letting me stay. Plus, she gets the points, that double-dipper.”
Imogen watched Georgia stretch. “How long will you stay with them?”
“I don’t know. I put in an application for state housing last week.” Georgia bent forward, touched the floor. “Until it goes through, I guess.”
“You’re welcome here, anytime.”
“Oh yeah?” Georgia gave her a look, one eyebrow raised. “And how many social integration points would you get for housing a disowned derelict?”
“At least sixty-five,” said Imogen, grinning.
“It hardly seems worth it.”
“You have no aspiration.”
Georgia laughed.
* * *
Imogen looked out her window to watch Georgia cross the street below her complex. Georgia held her school bag on her left shoulder. She crossed the street before the intersection, keeping her head down as she walked.
Imogen held her school bag evenly over both shoulders, looked straight ahead, and only ever crossed at the intersection. They were nothing alike. But it was good that way. They could be different, together.
Standard Aptitude Testing was four days away. Imogen had planned to study Maria Ricardo, Wei-Zen Li, Descartes. But she took out her slab and pulled up “Acceptable Room Colours for State Housing” on the paint catalogue. She wanted to find the perfect blue: the colour that matched the glass in Georgia’s necklace, and illustrated the sky.
Somewhere above her, she imagined, Earth was that colour, too.
CLARE MCNAMEE-ANNETT (she/her) is a writer in Surrey, British Columbia. She realized she identifies as part the queer community in eleventh grade, then informed her extended family in a single-page semi-block business letter. The responses broke and warmed her heart. Her short story, “Ich-iri,” is forthcoming in the Ab Terra International Science Fiction Anthology by Brain Mill Press. Like Imogen, she has hope for the future.